“I am not rushing,” Woodward replied stiffly. “I set my own pace.”
“Surely you do, and forgive me for stating otherwise. But it appears there is some pressure being put upon you. I understand how Bidwell feels Fount Royal is so endangered, and it’s certainly true that the town is being vacated at an alarming rate. These fires we’ve been suffering don’t help matters. Someone is trying to paint Madam Howarth as having the power of destruction beyond the gaol’s walls.”
“Your opinion.”
“Yes, my opinion. I’m aware that you have more experience in these matters than do I, but does it not seem very strange to you that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? And it seems to me quite peculiar that a woman who can burn down houses at a distance can’t free herself from a rusty lock.”
“The nature of evil,” Woodward said as he ate another spoonful of the tasteless mush, “is never fully understood.”
“Agreed. But I would think Satan would be more cunning than illogical. It appears to me that the Devil went to great pains to make certain everyone in town knew there was a witch among us, and that her name was Rachel Howarth.”
After a moment of contemplation, Woodward said, “Perhaps it is strange. Still, we have the witnesses.”
“Yes, the witnesses.” Johnstone frowned, his gaze fixed upon the fire. “A puzzle, it seems. Unless…one considers the possibility that—as much as I might wish to deny it—Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth’s face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.”
Woodward had been about to eat the last swallow of his pap, but he paused in lifting the spoon. This idea advanced by Johnstone had never occurred to him. Still, it was only an idea, and the witnesses had sworn on the Bible. But what if the witnesses had been themselves entranced, without knowing it? What if they had been led to believe they were viewing Madam Howarth, when indeed it was not? And when Satan had spoken Madam Howarth’s name to Violet Adams, was he simply attempting to shield the identity of the true witch?
No! There was the evidence of the poppets found in Madam Howarth’s house! But, as Matthew had pointed out, the house was empty for such a period of time that someone else might have secreted them there. Afterward, Satan might have slipped the vision into Madam Grunewald’s dreams, and thereby the poppets were discovered.
Was it possible—only by the slimmest possibility—that the wrong person was behind bars, and the real witch still free?
“I don’t wish to cloud your thinking,” Johnstone said in response to the magistrate’s silence, “but only to point out what damage a rush to execute Madam Howarth might do. Now, that being said, I have to ask if you have progressed any in your search for the thief.”
“The thief?” It took Woodward a few seconds to shift his thoughts to the missing gold coin. “Oh. No progress.”
“Well, Ben also informed me that you and your clerk had questions about my knee, and if I was able to climb the staircase or not. I suppose I could, if I had to. But I’m flattered that you would consider I could move as quickly as the thief evidently did.” The schoolmaster leaned forward and unbuttoned his breeches leg at the knee. “I wish you to judge for yourself.”
“Uh…it isn’t necessary,” Woodward whispered.
“Oh, but it is! I want you to see.” He pulled the breeches leg back and then rolled his stocking down. A bandage had been secured around the knee, and this Johnstone began to slowly unwrap. When he was finished, he turned his leg so as to offer Woodward a clear view of the deformity by the firelight. “There,” Johnstone said grimly. “My pride.”
Woodward saw that a leather brace was buckled around Johnstone’s knee, but the kneecap itself was fully exposed. It was the size of a knotty fist, gray-colored and glistening with some kind of oil. The bone itself appeared terribly misshapen, bulging up in a ghastly ridge along the top of the kneecap and then forming a concavity at the knee’s center. Woodward found himself recoiling from the sight.
“Alan! We heard the bell, but why didn’t you announce yourself?” Bidwell had just entered the parlor, with Winston a few steps behind him.
“I had business with the magistrate. I wished to show him my knee. Would you care to look?”
“No, thank you,” Bidwell said, as politely as possible.
But Winston came forward and craned his neck. He wrinkled up his nose as he reached the fireside. “My Lord, what’s that smell?”
“The hogsfat ointment Ben sells me,” Johnstone explained. “As the weather is so damp, I’ve had to apply it rather liberally tonight. I apologize for the odor.” Woodward, because his nostrils were blocked, could smell nothing. Winston came a couple of steps closer to view the knee but then he retreated with as much decorum as he could manage.
“I realize it’s not a pretty sight.” Johnstone extended his index finger and moved it along the bony ridge and down into the concavity, an exploration that made the magistrate’s spine crawl. Woodward had to look away, choosing to stare into the fire. “Unfortunately, it is part of my heritage. I understand my great-grandfather—Linus by name—was born with a similar defect. In good weather it has decent manners, but in such weather as we’ve been enduring lately it behaves rather badly. Would you care for a closer inspection?”
“No,” Woodward said. Johnstone gave his knee an affectionate pat and wrapped the bandage around it once more.
“Is there a point to this, Alan?” Bidwell asked.
“I am answering the magistrate’s inquiry as to whether my condition would allow me to take your staircase at any speed.”
“Oh, that.” Bidwell came over to the fireplace and offered his palms to the heat, as the schoolmaster pulled his stocking back up and rebuttoned the breeches leg. “Yes, the magistrate’s clerk advanced one of his rather dubious theories concerning your knee. He said—”
“—that he wondered if my knee was really deformed, or if I were only shamming,” Johnstone interrupted. “Ben told me. An interesting theory, but somewhat flawed. Robert, I’ve been in Fount Royal for—what?—three years or thereabouts? Have you ever seen me walk without the aid of my cane?”
“Never,” Bidwell said.
“If I were shamming, what would be the reason for it?” Johnstone was addressing this question to Woodward. “By God’s grace, I wish I could run down a staircase! I wish I could walk without putting my weight on a stick!” Heat had crept into the schoolmaster’s voice. “I cut a fine figure at Oxford, as you can imagine! There the prizes always belonged to the young and the quick, and I was forced to carry myself like a doddering old man! But I proved myself in the classroom, that’s what I did! I could not throw myself down the playing field, but I did throw myself into my studies, and thereafter I became president of my social club!”
“The Hellfires, I presume?” Woodward asked.
“No, not the Hellfires. The Ruskins. We emulated the Hellfires in some things, but we were rather more studious. Quite a bit more timid, to be truthful.” Johnstone seemed to realize he had displayed some bitterness at his condition, and his voice was again under firm control. “Forgive my outburst,” he said. “I am not a self-pitier and I wish no pity from anyone else. I enjoy my profession and I feel I am very good at what I do.”
“Hear, hear!” Winston said. “Magistrate, Alan has shown himself to be an excellent schoolmaster. Before he came, school was held in a barn and our teacher was an older man who didn’t have near Alan’s qualifications.”
“That’s right,” Bidwell added. “Upon Alan’s arrival here, he insisted a schoolhouse be built and regular lessons begun in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. He’s taught many of the farmers and their children how to write their own names. I must say, though, that Alan’s opening of the schoolhouse to the female children is a bit too liberal for my tastes!”
“That is liberal,” Woodward remarked. “Some might even say misguided.”
“Females are becoming more educated in Europe,” J
ohnstone said, with the slightly wearied sound of someone who has defended a position time and again. “I believe at least one member of every family should be able to read. If that is a wife or a female child, then so be it.”
“Yes, but Alan’s had to pry some of these children away from their families,” Winston said. “Like Violet Adams, for one. Education goes against the grain of these rustics.”
“Violet approached me wanting to learn to read the Bible, as neither of her parents were able. How could I refuse her? Oh, Martin and Constance at first were set against it, but I convinced them that reading is not a dishonorable exercise, and thereby Violet would please the Lord. After the child’s experience, however, she was forbidden to attend school again. A pity, too, because Violet is a bright child. Well…enough of this horn blowing.” The schoolmaster braced himself with his cane and stood up from the chair. “I should be on my way now, ere this weather gets any worse. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Magistrate. I hope you’re soon feeling better.”
“Oh, he shall!” Bidwell spoke up. “Ben’s coming by tonight to tend to him. It won’t be long before Isaac is as fit as a racehorse!”
Woodward summoned a frail smile. Never in his life had he been a racehorse. A workhorse, yes, but never a racehorse. And now he was Isaac to the master of Fount Royal, since the trial had ended and sentencing was imminent.
Bidwell walked with Johnstone to get his coat and tricorn before he braved the rain. Winston came forward to stand before the fire. The flames reflected off the glass of his spectacles. “A chill wind in May!” he said. “I thought I’d left such a thing behind in London! But it’s not so bad when one has a house as grand as this in which to bask, is it?” Woodward didn’t know whether to nod or shake his head, so he did neither.
Winston rubbed his hands together. “Unfortunately, my own hearth smokes and my roof will be leaking tonight like an oar-boat. But I shall endure it. Yes, I shall. Just as Mr. Bidwell has said at times of business crisis: whatever tribulations may come, they mold the character of the man.”
“What say, Edward?” Bidwell had entered the parlor again, after seeing Johnstone off.
“Nothing, sir,” Winston replied. “I was thinking aloud, that’s all.” He turned from the fire. “I was about to point out to the magistrate that our sorry weather is one more evidence of the witch’s spellcraft against us, as we’ve never been struck with such damp misery before.”
“I think Isaac is already well aware of Witch Howarth’s abilities. But we won’t have to endure her but a day or two longer, will we, Isaac?”
Bidwell was waiting for a response, his mouth cracked by a smile but his eyes hard as granite. Woodward, in order to keep the peace and thereby get to his bed without an uproar, whispered, “No, we won’t.” Instantly he felt shamed by it, because indeed he was dancing to Bidwell’s tune. But at the moment he was too sick and tired to give a damn.
Winston soon said good night, and Bidwell summoned Mrs. Nettles and a servant girl to help the magistrate upstairs. Woodward, ill as he was, protested against the girl’s efforts to disrobe him and insisted on preparing himself for bed. He had been under the sheet for only a few minutes when he heard the doorbell ring. Presently Mrs. Nettles knocked at his door, announcing the arrival of Dr. Shields, and the doctor came in armed with his bag of potions and implements.
The bleeding bowl was readied. The hot lancet bit true and deep through the crusted wounds of the morning’s bloodletting. As Woodward lay with his head over the edge of the bed and the sound of his corrupted fluids pattering into the bowl, he stared up at the ceiling where Dr. Shields’s shadow was thrown by the yellow lamplight.
“Not to fear,” the doctor said, as his fingers worked the cuts to keep the blood running. “We’ll banish this sickness.”
Woodward closed his eyes. He felt cold. His stomach had clenched—not because of the pain he was suffering, but because he’d thought of the three lashes that would soon be inflicted upon Matthew. At least, though, after the lashing was done Matthew would be free to go from that filthy gaol; and thankfully he would be free also from Rachel Howarth’s influence.
The blood continued to flow. Woodward felt—or imagined he felt—that his hands and feet were freezing. His throat, however, remained fiery hot.
He entertained himself for the moment with musings on how wrong Matthew had been in his theory concerning the Spanish spy. If indeed there was such a spy, Alan Johnstone was not the man. Or, at least, Johnstone was not the thief who’d taken Matthew’s coin. Matthew was so cocksure of his theories that sometimes the boy became insufferable, and this was a good opportunity to remind him that he made mistakes just like the rest of mankind.
“My throat,” he whispered to Dr. Shields. “It pains me.”
“Yes, we’ll tend it again after I’ve finished here.”
It was bad fortune to become so ill without benefit of a real hospital, Woodward thought. A city hospital, that is. Well, the task here would be soon finished. Of course he didn’t look forward with great relish to that trip back to Charles Town, but neither would he care to remain in this swamphole more than another week.
He hoped Matthew could bear the lashes. The first one would be a shock; the second would likely tear the flesh. Woodward had seen hardened criminals break into tears and cry for their mothers after the whip had thrice bitten their backs. But soon the ordeal would be over. Soon they could both take leave of this place, and Satan could fight the mosquitoes for its ruins as far as he cared.
Does it not seem very strange to you, Johnstone had said, that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? Woodward squeezed his eyes shut more tightly…consider the possibility that Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth’s face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.
No! Woodward thought. No! There were the witnesses, who had sworn truth on the Bible, and the poppets that were even now sitting atop the dresser! To consider that there was some other witch would not only delay his decision in regards to the prisoner but would also result in the complete abandonment of Fount Royal. No, Woodward told himself. It was sheer folly to march down that road!
“Pardon?” Dr. Shields said. “Did you say something, Isaac?” Woodward shook his head. “Forgive me, I thought you did. A bit more in the bowl and we’ll be done.”
“Good,” Woodward said. He could sleep now, if his throat were not so raw. The sound of his blood dripping into the bowl was nearly a strange kind of lullaby. But before he gave himself up to sleep he would pray for God to endow strength to Matthew, both to resist that woman’s wiles and to endure the whip with the grace of a gentleman. Then he would add a prayer to keep his own mind clear in this time of tribulation, so that he might do what was right and proper in the framework of the law.
But he was sick and he was troubled, and he had also begun to realize that he was afraid: of sinking into deeper illness, of Rachel Howarth’s influence over Matthew, of making a mistake. Afraid on a level he hadn’t known since his last year in London, when his whole world had been torn asunder like a piece of rotten cloth.
He feared the future. Not just the turn of the century, and what a new age might bring to this strife-burnt earth, but tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He feared all the demons of the unknown tomorrows, for they were creatures who destroyed the shape and structure of yesterday for the sake of a merry fire.
“A little more, a little more,” Dr. Shields said, as the blood continued to drip from the lancet cuts.
WHILE WOODWARD WAS BEING SO ATTENDED, Matthew lay in the dark on his pallet of straw and grappled with his own fears. It would not be seemly if tomorrow morning, at the delivering of the lashes, he should lose control and disgrace himself before the magistrate. He had seen criminals whipped before, and knew that sometimes they couldn’t hold their bodily functions, so great was the pain. He could stand three lashes; he knew he could. Rather, he hoped he could. If that giant Mr. Green put h
is strength into the blows…well, it was best not to think about that right now, or he’d convince himself that his back would be split open like a ripe melon.
Distant thunder sounded. The gaol had taken on a chill. He wished for a coat to cover himself, but of course there was nothing but these clothes that were—from the smell and stiffness of them—fit to be boiled in a kettle and cut into rags. Instantly he thought how petty were his own discomforts, as Rachel’s sackcloth robe was surely torment to her flesh by now and the punishment she faced was far more terrible—and more final—than a trio of whipstrikes.
So much was whirling through his mind that it seemed hot as a hearth, though his body was cold. He might wish for sleep, but he was his own hardest taskmaster and such relief was withheld. He sat up, folding his arms around himself, and stared into the dark as if he might see some answer there to the questions that plagued him.
The poppets. The testimony of Violet Adams. The three Devil’s familiars who could not have sprung from the rather simple mind of Jeremiah Buckner. And how to explain the dwarf-creature—the “imp”—that both Buckner and Violet Adams had seen at different times and locales? What also of the cloak with six buttons? And the Devil’s commandment to the child to “tell them to free my Rachel”? Could there be any more damning a decree?
But another thing kept bothering Matthew: what the child had said about hearing a man’s voice, singing in the darkness of another room at that house. Was it a fragment of nothing? Or was it a shadow of great importance?
“You’re awake.” It had been a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Matthew said.
“I can’t sleep either.”
“Little wonder.” He listened to the noise of rain dripping from the roof. Again there came the dull rumble of thunder.
“I have remembered something,” Rachel said. “I don’t know how important it is, but at the time I thought it was unusual.”
Speaks the Nightbird Page 37